


there's a truth in your eyes (saying you'll never leave me)

by muppetstiefel



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Max Is The Best Friend, Minor Eleven | Jane Hopper/Mike Wheeler, Mutual Pining, Will Byers & Maxine "Max" Mayfield Friendship, bookshop au, retail hell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 07:33:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20617313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muppetstiefel/pseuds/muppetstiefel
Summary: "Whoever said bookshops were romantic lied."





	there's a truth in your eyes (saying you'll never leave me)

Whoever said bookshops were romantic lied.

That’s the though circling around Will’s head like it’s a plughole as he crams his jacket into his locker.

The seven AM shift has always been a killer. They don’t open till eight, so the first hour is usually spent doing some godawful training exercise or doing a walk-around or god forbid having to listen to Carol talk about her borderline psychotic ex-boyfriend. If he could make one law, it would be that you didn’t actually have to listen to your co-worker’s personal lives.

That being said, he nods and smiles when he sees Max has arrived for work. She’s not a morning person, it’s evident in her face, so Will graciously fills the kettle and divides the remains of his coffee supply into two mugs.

“Late night?” he asks, somewhat hesitantly, as she cups the steaming mug in her hands. She doesn’t answer for a while, instead choosing to take a long sip of the scalding drink. Will focuses instead on her nails, a faded green, chipped on the thumbs, which clutch at the mug like a lifeline. He keeps telling himself he’ll paint his nails, one day. He even has the bottles of varnish sitting dejectedly in his bedside draw. For some reason, he always chickens out with the brush hovering just inches away.

“Not really,” Max is saying with a soft sigh, setting the mug down on the side. “I was on the phone to my mom for hours. Trying to explain to her that I’m not coming home for Christmas.”

Will wants to mention that the holidays are still months away yet, but the storm clouds settling over Max’s face stop him. instead he gulps at his coffee and tries to ignore the feeling it leaves in the back of his throat.

* * *

He spends most of the day tidying up after the children that seem to blow like a hurricane through the store. If it weren’t for the children themselves, Kids would be his favourite section in the store. Everything is rainbows and dogs and happiness. There’s no such thing as a dystopian table in the Kids section.

He reorganises the teen fiction and digs some new stock out of goods and then he resides himself behind the till with a book laid out in front of him. They’re not supposed to read at work, but Max is on her break and it’s a Monday afternoon. Customers are either milling around or relaxing in the café. Time trickles by slowly at four o’clock, so Will decides to bend some rules.

(Just one, really)

He supposes their not meant to read in case they miss the entrance of perspective customers. A fair enough reason, seen as Will doesn’t realises someone’s waiting at the till until he hears a small rustle of fabric, followed by a cough.

He slams his book shut and straightens himself up. The smile that pushes at his face is familiar but uncomfortable. It stretches unusually, forced and fake. “Hi, sorry about that,” he rushes out, meeting the eyes of the man, practically panting, opposite him.

He’s sweating profoundly. That’s the first thing Will notices. The way the sweat drips down his shirt which clings to his torso and curls at his hair. He looks like he’s run a marathon just to wind up here, in front of Will ten minutes before his break.

The second thing he notices is his eyes. They’re filled with an urgency and fear that doesn’t quite fit amongst the bored browsers and booksellers. They’re round, wide-set into his face. They only make his cheekbones look more sharp.

The man waves him off, still struggling to catch his breath. He bends over, hands clutching the till, and sucks in the air. Normally Will would crack a joke under his breath. Now, he just waits and watches, a silent observer of the curious man.

After a while he looks up and cracks a worried sort of smile. His face is tight, pinched in places it shouldn’t be. Still, Will thinks, he pulls it off.

“I need a book,” the man says, with a sincerity that makes Will laugh a little.

He gestures around himself. “You may have to be a bit more specific,” the man looks so serious, Will wonders for a moment if he’s the one in the wrong. He glances over his shoulder but is, thankfully, greeted with a Malorie Blackman display.

The man shakes himself and laughs. His features seem to relax a little and Will is hit with just how well-sculpted his face is. His features, which could be a little too big on anyone else, sit just perfectly on his face. “Yeah, sorry,” he’s saying, still a little breathy, “Ignore me. I’m such an idiot.”

Will says nothing, but his heart aches to make a joke of familiarity with this stranger.

The stranger reaches for his backpack, tugs at the zip and retrieves a George Orwell book. It’s a stained copy of Homage to Catalonia. The pages are bent back, dried circles from the rim of a glass covering the front. It’s ripped and tattered, and whilst Will loves those qualities in a book, this one is unreadable.

He raises an eyebrow at the stranger, who just sighs in defeat. “Yeah, I know, I know. It’s ruined. That’s why I’m here. I need a new copy, like,” he glances at a pretend watch, then draws his eyes back to Will, “Now.”

It’s a bad joke, but Will laughs in spite of himself. “Well, that should be in general fiction… that’s downstairs.”

“I know,” the stranger’s fingers trace around the edge of the tattered book, like it’s a default to hold onto its familiar pages. “I had a look and I couldn’t see it. The women said to ask up here.”

Carol. Will could just kill her.

Except this stranger is looking at him like he’s a knight in shining armour, with a childish expectancy, and Will doesn’t mind in the slightest.

He clicks onto the database and searches for the book. He wishes that he was a miracle worker. But he’s just a bookseller.

“I’m sorry,” he grimaces, not wanting to watch the way the man’s face falls at the apologetic tone of his voice, “we don’t have any in stock. I could order it here for you?”

The man curses and his grip tightens on the damaged book. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

“It’ll be here in two days,” Will compensates. The man looks like he wants to cry. Instead, he says “shit” another time. And another.

Will doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want to twist the knife, and luckily he doesn’t have to. The man looks up to him, dragging the palm of his hand across his face. “It’s her birthday, today. It’s the only thing she wanted, literally the only thing she asked for. Shit, I’m such a shit boyfriend.”

There’s the catch. Will knew it was coming, but he doesn’t know why it hurts so much. Maybe it’s the realisation that Notting Hill is not a real, historical prophecy but rather a rom-com. It stings like hell, even though he’s only known this man for minutes. He doesn’t believe in love at first sight.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t.

Shit.

He just smiles, gentle and careful, like he’s approaching a wounded pup, and reaches for the copy of Orwell. The man gives the book up without much protest, letting Will turn it over in his hands. “Is she a big Orwell fan then?”

The stranger shakes his head. “Not really. It was a gift from her mom. She’s read it to death, cover to cover every time,” he laughs fondly at the memory and Will tries not to wince.

“Maybe,” he starts with caution, “You need to try something different, then. Something that will remind her of you, not of her mom. Something new to read to death.”

Surprisingly (or maybe not) the stranger perks up at that. He seems to swallow the lump in his throat and nods, “yeah, you’re right. God, why did I not think of that?”

“You’re just not as savvy as me,” Will chides. The man laughs, and it aches how much this feels like talking to an old friend. “What does she like?”

He shrugs, tapping his fingers against the counter. “She likes old things? I never got it really, but she always collects these old things. Not antiques, not really, just things people have already owned. I always thought it was weird.”

But Will knows exactly what he means, “she loves things that feel like they’ve been loved.”

The stranger nods at that, a little stunned, but eager. “Yeah, that’s it! She said somethings you can just feel the love radiating off it. Like the thing itself is the happiness of the memories.”

The man looks so happy. The thought of her makes him so happy. Will pushes that thought out of his mind.

Instead, he reaches under the counter and pulls out a battered, but more intact copy of Walt Whitman. He presses it into the man’s hands with a careful consideration.

“Poetry,” he explains at his confused expression. “Trust me, it’ll make any girl fall in love with you.”

The man reddens slightly, but nods and clutches the book tighter. “How much?”

“No charge,” Will is saying before he can stop himself. Not that he could sell it anyway. Not legally. Not when it belongs to him, not the store. Not when it has his brother’s and his mom’s name scrawled in the margin.

But this stranger needs it more now. The girl with the heart full of love needs it more than he does.

The man is turning to leave, when Will stops him. “Wait. There is a charge. Your name?”

The stranger grins, scuffing his shoes against the linoleum. “It’s Mike.”

God, he’s so fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> Will is already w h i p p e d. Poor boy.
> 
> I can't promise that this will be updated regularly because I am very busy and also planning on starting the TTIHH sequel very soon, but I will be keeping up with this fic. It's gonna be a bit lighter than my other one, so hopefully it'll be a nice balance between fluff and shenanigans.
> 
> Title from When You Say Nothing At All because I was inspired by Notting Hill.


End file.
